


Skeleton Town

by Rambert



Category: Original Work
Genre: Cannabis, Desert, Dogs, Gardens & Gardening, Genderless, Masturbation, Mystery Character(s), Origin Story, Other, POV First Person, Roommates, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:22:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21993850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rambert/pseuds/Rambert
Summary: I remember my first day setting foot in this dusty little diner.Has it really been seven years? Hell, it'll be eight this July.
Relationships: Narrator/Original Character(s)





	Skeleton Town

**Author's Note:**

> Something I wrote in the heat of summer. yes the narrator / main character is intentionally not gendered at this point. 
> 
> But despite the fact that yes I do smoke weed and live in the desert this is very much fiction NOT any sort of autobiography and this Narrator is not supposed to be me. 
> 
> feedback of any kind on my writing is much appreciated, especially on original works c: cuz i hope this doesn't just read like I'm playing the Sims lmaoooo

I take a long, slow drag off my hand-rolled blunt.

The ash flickers off the end, down onto the cheap laminate of the diner booth table. Normally I'm more careful about my ashes, but today I'm sitting closer to the door than usual-- the gusts from patrons entering and exiting are causing more of a breeze than I'm used to.

I wipe the ash away with my hand after setting the blunt down onto the ash tray, then raise my coffee cup in a silent request for a refill. My elbow rests on the countertop as I wait.

A minute or so later Bailey comes by and refills my coffee-- almost overflowing, like always, starting the pour before I've even set the mug back down. They know I don't take it with cream or sugar, so it suits me fine. I just have to lean over and take a few undignified slurps before I can actually pick it up.

"Thanks Bailey," I say as I bend to the counter.

I've been coming to Allison's Diner for years. Since before Bailey and a few of the others even worked here. They call me "Rocky", because of my low, gravelly voice. I've never bothered to correct them.

No one here would be safe if my real name or identity was known.

A couple of them have even joked about me being a suspicious character-- what with the fact that I'm here every single morning for almost three full hours but never order food, rolling blunts at the table and drinking cup after cup of cheap coffee. I just smile, and slide over another $10. I pay them at least that amount every day, sometimes more if I can. My bill is always $2.50 for the coffee and free refills, but I tip them for the time... and for letting me roll blunts and smoke them at the table without bothering me.

That kind of uninterrupted peace is worth far more money than I can pay.

"How you make that kind of money when you always waste so much time here?" some of them ask, shaking their heads.

But they take my money anyway.

And I sit here sipping my coffee every morning, soaking up the stillness and the slow-moving attitude this sleepy town has. I breathe deeply and my heartbeat is calm, something that wasn't always true for me. Even the coffee can't rile me up any more; they make it so weak here that it's basically like decaf anyway. But it's hot and fresh which counts for a lot.

I remember my first day setting foot in this dusty little diner.

Has it really been seven years? Hell, it'll be eight this July.

It was miserably hot, as most desert towns are in summer. The heat was dry, parching, clawing the moisture out of your pores before you even had a chance to feel the sweat. The air vibrated from the sizzles of hot air rising from all the empty parking lots, and from the fresh tar of the main thoroughfare.

"Ghost town" wasn't accurate for this place-- but "skeleton town" just might have been.

And is still today, considering not much has changed here. A single gas station that I soon found out would go out of service more often than people liked, Allison's Diner, a dilapidated 99c Only store, a car repair shop with odd hours (which makes it extremely inconvenient to tourists passing through... which is very intentional), a post office that looks like it's been around since the Pony Express days.

And of course, a shitty dive bar right next to a tiny shack of a liquor and tobacco and porn store. There isn't even a city hall here, because technically this is an unincorporated township that doesn't abide by the local government rules of zoning and commercial needs. The closest actual city with a DMV and shopping malls and real signs of life is over fifty miles away through the mountains.

Nearly eight years ago, I found myself here on the brink of death. My car had broken down nearly 15 miles outside of town, and I had been intending to pass by this dust trap but had no choice except to walk there on foot, searching desperately for another car the entire time... not a single one.

I'd been the only car on the road for a frightening time before that too. This was a forsaken place, I knew, and I did not want to be here.

But by the time I dragged myself into Allison's diner for the first time, collapsing into a booth, I felt such a sense of relief that I couldn't move for hours. People were buzzing around me, pressing water glasses to my lips and talking, but I couldn't hear them. Their voices swirled around me and soothed me, and I fell asleep.

\--

It's afternoon now which means it's time to go to work.

Most people in this town are employed at a nearby copper mine, which means they're gone for a minimum of 12 hours on average-- when I said "nearby" I meant a two-hour drive each way.

So by comparison, what I do seems... lazy, to them. But I don't mind their judgment. I pay rent like everyone else and serve the community; they can think what they like about me.

When I first got here I was set up in Stephanie's house, but I was having such a bad allergic reaction to her three large dogs that I had to be relocated the next day to her neighbor Sonya's house. Sonya had cats, which suited me fine. But she told me candidly the next night that unless I was trying to be her main squeeze, that it was time for me to get going. I left in the morning, the fourth day since I'd arrived.

I didn't have a way to make more money, or a way to get to my car-- the tow truck guy was fishing upstate on vacation, I'd learned. I had just barely recovered from the worst allergy flare-up of my entire life. And it was in that bleary-eyed state that I found myself wandering the streets of this dusty town, wondering if this was it. If I would die here.

I still wonder that, but it's a peaceful thought now. Back then it was an anxious one.

I don't know what I would have done if it hadn't been for Suzy's generosity. She came over and sat next to me in the diner that I was spending the last of my money in, noticing that I was new in town, and asked if I had a place to stay. I said not really, and she offered me her guest room so long as I cleaned the house for her and started paying rent within the first three months.

I moved in that afternoon after we'd gone clothes shopping once Suzy had pried out of me that I had nothing but what was on my person. The next day we went and got my car and that was that, I'd settled in to town. It almost frightened me how easily this town accepted me as soon as one of their own vouched for me. But I needed that, and I was grateful.

Today, I head back to Suzy's and put my bag down in the house, going out to the backyard where my babies are waiting. I spend the next hour watering, weeding, and carefully checking on all my plants-- ph, soil levels, pruning dead bits, the works.

I've cultivated a large garden back here, replacing Suzy's tired brown grass with desert plants and herbs including cannabis-- Suzy takes half of it as part of my rent now. But at first it was just rosemary, mint, thyme, oregano, lavender, sage and nopales. I sold them all fresh or dried or frozen, but also already prepared into sachets or teas, or pre-cooked in case of the nopales. I didn't make much extra than the $300 a month I was charged in rent at first, but luckily Suzy allowed me to cook with her own food and kitchen so long as I cleaned up after myself.

Sometimes, I think Suzy needed someone to do things around the house as much as I needed a place to stay. We got along great with one another, as Suzy mostly just stayed in her room reading and left me alone to my own devices except at mealtimes when we'd eat and talk together.

She was a widow I'd learned, her husband having worked in the copper mine his entire life. Her grown son was living in Los Angeles working in the tech crew for a very popular TV show. He made quite a bit of money and sent her a check each month; in addition to her husband's pension it ensured she was very comfortable. This meant she never raised my rent, for which I was very grateful.

The next year, in addition to starting some germinated weed seeds I got a big aloe vera plant, a lemon tree, and a lime tree from a farmer's market four hours away. The drive was hot and hellish but so worth it in the end, because not only was Suzy the only one with any of these things in the town but the weather meant they flourished. I not only sold the fruits and the aloe vera by themselves, but also made them into beverages that I poured into to-go cups bought from the 99c store.

The next year I got a giant saguaro cactus from a nursery the next state over, as well as a prickly pear cactus. The next year when it flowered and fruited I developed the recipe for a mean prickly pear martini, and suddenly people in town wanted to buy it in those 99c store cups. I couldn't make it fast enough that summer.

And by the fifth year I'd developed a garden worthy of being on the cover of a magazine, with a very well-cared for cannabis plant, barrel cacti and a pine tree and all sorts of herbs and desert flowers dotting what used to be a plain dead yard. Suzy gets nothing but compliments on it from all her friends and family, and I'm just happy to be doing what I love for once rather than being forced into doing what I'm good at for a sinister cause.

\--

After taking care of the garden and a couple customers who dropped by, I'm dirty and exhausted, so I get in a hot shower. Afterwards I give myself a break by watching some TV with Suzy's little chihuahua Fanny. She's anxious and shy like me so we get along-- she likes to sit on my lap and watch Law & Order re-runs, which are just about the only thing the local cable has to offer except news and sports and televangelism. Something about the fakeness of 'true crime' shows soothes me.

Suzy usually surfaces out from her room around this time, and today is no exception. She sits down next to us on the couch during a commercial break and pats Fanny's head.

"How's the weather today?" she asks in greeting, and I smile.

"It's perfect. Hot but breezy."

"Ah, wonderful! Do you think you'd be up for grilling tonight? I've got some chicken marinating in the fridge."

"Sure, that sounds great. Did you use some herbs in the marinade?"

"Of course," Suzy said, tutting.

"Just because you do it most of the time doesn't mean I've forgotten how to cook, you know."

I grin.

"I'll get started on some skewer veggies then," I say while pushing myself up off the couch.

An hour later we're sitting outside eating a simple but delicious spread of chicken skewers with a yogurt dill dressing and soft bread rolls. Fanny is under the table licking at our calves hopefully, but Suzy shakes her head.

"You've already gotten treats today, this chicken is too oily for you."

But when Fanny whines, Suzy sighs and gives her a tiny piece which the dog gobbles up immediately.

"You spoil her," I say good-naturedly, knowing full well I do the same.

\--

After filling up the dishwasher with the first round of dishes, it's time to get to work. Although customers can stop by anytime, the biggest rush I get is the after-shift hours from five to seven in the evening, depending on who drives fastest down those dusty desert roads. I kept the grill from dinner on and now there are steaming nopales that are ready to cool and be served fresh or flash-frozen for easy cooking later.

Then I work on the herbs, washing and drying the bundles I've picked today and storing them with various methods to ensure their freshness. I get a total of eight customers today, making close to $35 which is a great day for me. I don't ask for much in this world, just enough to get by. Sometimes they try to pay me more but I don't let them, insisting they pay it forward to someone else instead.

Once I've re-stocked my basics and stored the rest of the herbs in bundles tied with string to the closet clothes pole in my room, I clean the kitchen and bathroom from all the messes my work creates and finally get ready for bed. It's only nine by the time I've finished brushing my teeth and hair, but I don't stay up late any more even in the summer.

Something about the night time takes me back in my trauma, to things that I'm not brave enough to revisit yet. It's not monsters in the shadows that I worry about, it's my own thoughts. My own memories. The lies I believed.

So I go to bed early after saying goodnight to Suzy (who is in front of the TV), lying alone in my room. And almost as soon as I do, the heat that's been pressing at my insides for hours coils impatiently, begging me not to resist it any longer. I'm lying on my back, but my hips start rocking almost of their own accord, begging for attention. I attempt to ignore it, biting my lip. I feel like I'm losing control of myself lately.

It's not that I face any objection to this pleasure... I'm not religious any more after the things I've seen. But my current levels of hunger are only escalating the longer I'm here and I'm starting to wonder if I'm some sort of deviant in the making. I tried skipping this ritual one night recently and the next day was terrible. This is the way I stay calm and collected the way people know me; this keeps my chaotic energy from my past at bay.

My wrists twitch along with my body, begging to be connected so the pressure can get me off. My chest is hot, my heartbeat racing underneath. The ache inside me builds to a fever pitch... and I give in.

I press at the front of my underwear over my crotch and feel a wet spot, hissing in a fast breath. I haven't even been watching porn or thinking about sex but it's like this pent-up energy builds inside me all day and touching myself there, I feel it flowing out of me in the best way. The sensation is amazing.

It's irresistible, impossible to stop the curl and stroke of my fingers over my most sensitive parts. I shudder as I dip my fingers below the waistband of my underwear and feel the wetness in full force, my whole body convulsing around my hand's movements as I rub and stroke more firmly now.

Oh... oh yes. Oh that's good. I lick over my lips and tilt my head back, lost in the primal ecstasy of heat.

I'm not going to last long... I never do lately. It feels so _good_ in the slick wet heat.

I don't even have to think about anything, that's the part that almost disturbs me. I used to have to create elaborate fantasies in my head to orgasm, and it was so much mental work. It required focus, and patience.

Now, touching myself is a sensation I drown in whether I wish to or not. It's better than the sweetest sugar, better than the finest weed or the coffee with the best-roasted beans. Better than anything. And I cannot resist its pull.

My hand moves faster, harder, slip-sliding through my grease. Hips go rigid as the pressure inside me swells.

I want to scream out, but my throat closes up out of instinct to keep quiet. Instead my back arches as I crest higher on that wave of pleasure, then higher still...

All too soon, I'm reaching that peak, _ohyesyesyes_\-- time slows down for a few agonizingly delicious moments as I grunt out, squirting all over myself as my body twitches through the waves.

I pant to catch my breath, already lamenting that it's over and now I'm far too tired to do more.

It's usually this way, now, unless I've had a particularly easy day. But now I wipe myself off and drag myself into the bathroom to pee and wash my hands before flopping back into bed. I fall asleep easily like I do every night that I do this, far away from my haunted past.

**Author's Note:**

> Idk if I'm ever going to add on to this cuz it was just some escapist stuff I wrote at a terrible job without a huge plot idea or backstory filled in, but if you'd like to see more please comment to motivate me to continue! 
> 
> Thanks for reading :)


End file.
